


Trails Into the Dark

by clos3tt3



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Accepting Challenges, Drabble Collection, Frequent updates, Multi, Varying ratings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:31:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4584408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clos3tt3/pseuds/clos3tt3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>100-word drabbles of any topic or pairing with any character(s). Accepting suggestions/challenges, but I'll also post without them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remus/Sirius: Rosemary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: G
> 
> Tags: Romance, 1971

**1.**

Sirius turns the corner, small feet stamping at the ground, the light of the courtyard tickling his skin because he’s dangerously out of dress code in his night clothes and his chubby hand rubs at his eyes.

Ducking into the wispy rosemary bushes and holding the hot wall so tightly his fingers grow red. He holds his breath and his head feels light. Can hear the open-walled hall breathe with Remus’ footsteps.

His heart is beating so hard it hurts, so he dodges slowly into the brush, careful not to let his frilly blue collar catch on any rosemary branches.

 

**2.**

“Sirius? Are you there?”

Sirius’ cheeks are hurting with the air he retains, and an emerald green branch scratches his nose and he just wants to breathe in the scent. His rib-cage is sore all over.

It’s Remus’ muddy robe he spots first, and then it’s hair that frizzes at the top and is jet under the sun, curving just around the shells of his ears in big twists on both sides.

The game ends when Sirius scrabbles at his chest; touches his throat; gasps.

Remus grins and it captures the light of the courtyard in one measure.


	2. Alastor Moody: Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated: G
> 
> Tags: Items, Personification

**1.**

Alastor’s magic eye rattles in its socket, heavy and ponderous, its glass surface speckled with dirt and milky water spots.

It can scale hollow corners and chisel into darkness; frisk cavernous gaps of space. It can spot the very beginning brushstrokes beneath the dancing, ancient portraits in the wheezing halls at night.

It can see the first ticks of a pen on a map; can distinguish the very atoms of the ink.

It can loudly clack and spin over splintered floors; can raise dust wherever it falls. It can race; it can leap; it can _run_.

It chases nothing.

 

**2.**

Alastor’s natural eye is a small thing.

Muted reds bleed between the wrinkles in their burnished circles, daggers of gorged yellows and dull greys tangling the cloth of fleshy ropes and corded strings.

When tears dip into the color, they stain it brown. The surface becomes rigid and its naked shades tighten and harden like glass, the whole thing becoming reflective.

Alastor’s eye squinches and grows wide and falters, and so often it’s been squinted to accommodate the leaden weight of the opalescent globe perching beside it.

Brief lashes wasp downward over it.

It is lidded by a heavy hood.

 


End file.
